


cargo of joy

by mellyflori



Series: my ship coming in [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Smut, Found Family, Kid Fic, M/M, Unrepentant Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:29:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2454764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Facing Aramis, Porthos is standing with his hands fisted in his pockets and rocking back and forth from the balls of his feet to his heels. “This was really nice, I’m glad you could come.” </p><p>“It was very nice, thanks for inviting me.” </p><p>“If I invited you again, would you come back?” </p><p>“That depends. If I kissed you right now, would you kiss me back?” </p><p>“Absolutely.”   </p><p>Aramis hooks his fingers into Porthos’ belt loops and tugs him closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cargo of joy

**Author's Note:**

> Some unapologetic sweet, schmoopy fluff in the midst of a rough few weeks. Thank you to ceeturnalia for listening to me plot it out, and to my darling Dee for being the best cheerleader ever and for wrangling my commas. And thank you to everyone of you who is dubious about kidfic but decides to read this anyway, I've put a fair amount of smut in as a thank you.
> 
> Title from Carol Ann Duffy's gorgeous poem "Ship."

He’s still living in temporary housing, in the spare bedroom of one of the other Marines posted at the Office of the Defense Attaché, when Porthos finds out in one fell swoop that his Senior Security Officer is married to a man and that he knows of the perfect school for Porthos’ daughters.

Porthos has gone into Athos’ office with some questions about a briefing that had been sent over that morning and when they’re finished going through that, Athos asks, “How is everything else?  Are you settling in?”

Scrubbing at the back of his neck with his hand, Porthos says he’s doing fine but he’s finding himself stuck on the subject of school for the girls.

“Ah,” says Athos. “The lovely Lucienne and Salomé?” 

Porthos has stopped being surprised at the things Athos knows. “Yeah. They’re with their mother in Switzerland for their summer holiday and I’d wanted to have a place for them by the time they got here. But…” 

“It’s confusing and every place sounds the same.” 

“Yes, and I’m sure half of them are making it up for the website but I can’t figure out which half.”

“What are you looking for?” 

“I hate saying it, because I sound like one of _those_ parents, but I think my girls are special, and I want someplace special for them. Luci’s got this incredible imagination and Mémé never met a problem she couldn’t take apart. I want someplace that will encourage that, not push them into boxes so they’re just like all the other kids, yeah?” 

Athos’ smile is secret but soft and he says, “I know exactly what you mean.”  His hands come down on the desk and he leans toward Porthos, raising his eyebrows, “I think I know a place that will suit perfectly. I’m sure from the outside it looks like a mess of no rules run by a bunch of hippies but it’s really quite extraordinary.”

Porthos grins, “That sounds promising.” 

“Are you busy after work?”   Porthos shakes his head. He doesn't have anything planned. “Come with me this afternoon, then. I have to pick up my husband and son; we’re going out of town for the weekend. He’s a first grade teacher there and he’ll show you around, explain the place a bit. We’ll drop you at the nearby Metro station on our way out.” 

Porthos wouldn’t be the successful security officer he is if he missed the almost infinitesimal emphasis Athos put on the word “husband.” This is a test. He flashes a grin because he knows that Athos was hoping to sniff out if Porthos is an adversary, but the reality is that they’ve both just found an ally. 

“That sounds really nice. I’d love an expert opinion on the place and I’d be honored to meet your family.”

Athos’ smile this time is relaxed and Porthos dares to hope that given time they can be friends.

 

The ride out to the school that afternoon is more comfortable than Porthos would have expected. He and Athos talk about Washington D.C., their first impressions and how Athos’ have changed over the years. He’s essentially “gone native” and requested extensions on his posting repeatedly. Anyone who’s met his husband has no question as to why.

At stoplights, Athos scrolls through pictures on his phone and Porthos smiles at the beautiful dark-haired, olive-skinned man holding a grinning little boy with Athos’ nose. They’ve been together for almost eight years and Charlie is nearly five. 

When they arrive at the school, Porthos stops to marvel at the setting. Old growth trees arch over the drive and there are vegetable gardens growing next to the small parking lot; there’s a pond and a huge weeping willow. The school building itself is a huge old barn painted bright red, its roof covered in banks of solar panels that glint in the late afternoon light. 

Athos doesn’t even have to look over to gauge Porthos’ reaction. He just says, “Wait until you see it inside.” 

He’s not wrong. Inside the building Porthos can see that the South wall is all windows and that the light floods in making the polished wood floors glow. The walls are covered in drawings and paintings and found-object art, all clearly made by the students. 

Athos is huffs a quiet laugh at Porthos’ expression but before Porthos can see anything, a redhead in an enthusiastically colored sundress and bright blue Chuck Taylor hi-tops walks into the open central room and starts when she sees them. 

“Athos!  Oh, we’ve missed you around here. To what do we owe the pleasure?” 

Athos smiles and draws her into a fond hug. “D’Artagnan and I are taking Charlie off to the lake for the weekend. Also, I’ve brought you a prospective parent.” 

Her smile transforms an already pretty face into a ray of sunshine. “Wonderful!” 

Athos does the introductions. “Constance is the director here, the school is her baby. Porthos is one of the new security staff at the Attaché’s office and he’s looking for the right school for his daughters. Twins. They’re… ten?” He turns to Porthos who nods and shakes Constance’s hand.

She loops her arm through Porthos' and walks him around the room pointing out the childrens’ art, the small library, the classrooms. She says the gardens are there because the children grow vegetables for their own lunches. It is clear from her tone that this is something she’s worked hard to bring to life and that she loves every splinter of wood in this building and every child and teacher in it. 

Constance is talking about the plans for language immersion programs after school when the door from the lower floor opens and the young man from Athos’ pictures comes through it. The change in Athos’ face is probably something he wishes Porthos hadn’t seen. Deep laugh lines appear at the corners of his eyes and his smile is broad and happy. 

“Athos!  How long have you been here?  You should have come down!” 

Athos explains Porthos’ presence and says he was planning on coming down when Constance finished. 

“You’ll be here until Tuesday, then,” Athos’ husband laughs. “Constance could talk about this place for hours. When we first visited, I wasn’t sure we’d make it out and that the sitter would try to sell Charlie.”  

Constance’s swat to his arm is mostly ineffectual but there wasn’t any spite behind it anyway. 

Athos introduces d’Artagnan, no hidden weight behind the word ‘husband’ this time and his face showing nothing but love. Porthos is used to Athos being serious and business-like and finds he likes this side of him more and more. 

D’Artagnan’s eyes light up at Porthos’ name. “Oh, he’s mentioned you!  You’re new in the office, yes?  I didn’t realize you were a parent.”

And with that they’re off. Porthos talks about his girls, about their intelligence and imagination, their spark. D’Artagnan talks about Charlie and how he seems to be showing an aptitude for music that they’re trying to encourage. When d’Artagnan begins to discuss the school, Porthos finds himself growing more and more enamored of the place. 

He shows Porthos the art room, the music room, the playground with the xylophone made of PVC pipes. The school’s educational philosophy is project-based and child-led. The kids pick a subject and the teachers approach it from all disciplines. There is heavy emphasis on arts integration.

Last year, the first-graders did an experiment on how long it took for various things to decay in the compost pile, documenting the process with photos, drawings and graphs. This year, they’ve committed to knowing all their songs in Spanish and ASL. D’Artagnan is incredibly proud of his class and his enthusiasm is infectious. Porthos can see why Athos couldn’t resist him.

After half an hour, Athos begins to shift and softly clears his throat a couple of times until d’Artagnan checks the clock and gives a startled “Oh!”  

“Yes.”  Athos’ smile is indulgent.

D’Artagnan makes apologetic noises at Porthos and runs off saying he has to go get Charlie from the summer camp program downstairs. 

Constance turns to Porthos saying, “I know we’re enthusiastic, but we just love this place so much. Can’t help ourselves, really. It gets into your heart. Do you have any questions?” 

Porthos can’t think of a single one. He knows he should ask about tuition but at this rate he’d take a second job to put his girls in this school so instead he just says, “Can I get an application?” and smiles.

“Absolutely!  I’ll be right back with it.”

Porthos and Athos are standing in the central room speaking fondly of Constance’s exuberance when the door to the basement slams open and through it comes a small boy with a riot of dark hair and bright blue eyes yelling, “Papa!” 

Without a trace of self-consciousness or hesitation, Athos drops to one knee with his arms held out and the boy runs straight into them. There are hugs and kisses and when Athos stands again the boy comes with him. 

Charlie, because clearly that’s who this bundle of energy with d’Artagnan’s hair is, pats at his father’s face, smashing his cheeks flat and saying in French as flawless as it can be for Charlie’s age, “Why are you here?” 

Athos’ answer, also in French, is distorted by the way Charlie is manipulating his face but Porthos can make out, “We’re going to the lake and we thought you would like to come with us. But you can stay home alone if you want. We’ll leave the TV on.”   When Athos smiles, his cheeks fold under Charlie’s hands.

Laughing, Charlie tugs on Athos’ beard and says “You wouldn’t leave me at home. You love me!”

Disengaging Charlie’s hands, Athos deadpans, “Curses, you’ve discovered my secret weakness.”   Athos struggles to keep ahold of the boy as Charlie squirms around to face Porthos. The look he gives Porthos is an exact replica of the look Athos gives people who come into his office without an appointment. 

D’Artagnan introduces them and once Porthos has the application paperwork in his hand, they all walk back out to the car. The ride to the Metro station is short, which is for the best because the sound of Charlie’s excited voice makes Porthos miss his girls so much it hurts.

 

On the subway ride, he sends a quick text to his ex-wife to see if it’s too late to get them on a quick Skype call that night. He feels a knot loosen in his chest when she says that of course it’s not too late even though he knows it’s close to midnight and she’s keeping the girls up for this. They’ve known each other too long for her to not see through his casual question. He wouldn’t be asking this late if he didn’t need it and she knows that even strict bedtimes can be set aside for special occasions. She says they’ll be waiting.

The call is just what he needs. He tells them about the school, about Constance and the gardens and the music and art room. Luci leans close to the webcam and blows him kisses while Mémé kisses her fingers and touches them to the screen. “We miss you, Papa.” 

Before he goes to sleep that night, Porthos thinks of Charlie squirming in Athos’ grip and counts the days until he can get his own hugs. Fourteen days. He can do this.

 

The transition to their life in America isn’t without its bumps. The girls love the house he’s found in the leafy suburb not far from the school. They love the neighbors and the eccentric shop owners and the place they’ve found for weekend breakfasts but they’re ten-year-old girls and they get bored.

The victim of their boredom is Porthos himself. It seems their mother has a new girlfriend and they’ve decided that their father could also use some love in his life. The first time, when they ask the woman running the desk in the childrens’ section of the library if she thinks their Papa is handsome, then follow up by saying that he’s single and asking if she’s single as well, Porthos realizes he might be in trouble. 

When they tell the clerk ringing up their groceries that he has a nice smile and then turn to Porthos to innocently ask, “Doesn’t he have a nice smile, Papa?” Porthos splutters and shoots his best death glare at Lucienne. It’s usually safe to assume she’s the instigator but she doesn’t even have the good grace to look guilty. She just blinks her huge eyes at him and waits for him to melt.

Eventually, after the last straw, he has to sit them down and tell them that he appreciates their effort but that they need to stop. He tells them that he has a great life, he has a job he loves and he has them and how could he possibly want anything else. There might be someone else, he says, but not any time soon. He adds in that if they invite the nurse from the pediatrician’s office over again without telling him, they’re both going to be grounded for life.

The next week they’re due to start school and that will keep them busy. He thinks that’s the end of it.

 

The Back to School picnic is a happy affair full of bright, energetic kids and Porthos’ girls make friends immediately. Porthos finds the blanket Athos has laid out and takes a seat next to him. D’Artagnan, Athos explains, is getting ready for the informal meeting each teacher has with that year’s parents. 

Athos points out various teachers and assistants that Porthos might come to know and which parents should be avoided at all costs. Porthos is looking around the grounds and taking everything in when he sees d’Artagnan speaking to a heart-stoppingly beautiful man with dark, riotous curls and a wicked smile. Athos follows his gaze and says, “I know, letting the two of them stand close to each other should be illegal.”   

He doesn’t expand on the other man’s identity and Porthos doesn’t ask. He just told his girls about how full and happy his life is, he isn’t interested in meeting anyone right now. Even to Porthos it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

 

As the school year gets underway, Porthos sees the man sometimes during morning drop-off but always by the time he thinks to ask who he is, the girls are clambering out of the car, kissing his cheeks and hurrying into the building. It’s not until parent/teacher conference day that the question is answered.

The weekend before the conferences, Porthos and the girls are supposed to be going down to a festival in DC but Saturday dawns rainy and unseasonably cool so they spend the day together at home instead.

“We’ll have a movie day.”  The girls make a nest of blankets on the couch while Porthos makes popcorn and he spends the day with his two favorite people. Even as indulgent as he’s feeling, he draws the line at watching Brave for a third time in one day.

Salomé’s eyes are huge, "Papa, we're poor motherless girls. We **need** positive female role models in our lives."

Her sister nods solemnly.

"Your mother is in Switzerland, she's not **dead** and I would call her right now to tell her what you're up to if I didn't think she'd find it amusing." 

They compromise and watch How To Train Your Dragon. Porthos falls asleep on the sofa somewhere in the middle.

Luci says, "I bet he'd be less picky about our movies if he were dating someone, too."   The conversation has been going on in various incarnations for weeks. 

Next to her, Mémé gives their father a fond look. "I know he said no more helping, but he’s going to get to talk to _all_ our teachers on conference day. Should we at least tell him to wear a nice shirt?"

Luci taps the remote against her chin and considers the idea. "No. He'll wear that black t-shirt he likes best, I don't think we should mess with that."

"Luci?"  Her voice is hesitant. "The last time he wore that black t-shirt during a Skype to Maman she said it was dangerous and a public menace. Should we warn Mr. Aramis?" 

The case for Brave is still sitting on the coffee table and Luci nudges it with her toe. "Don't be silly.”

 

He’s taken the actual day of the conferences off work so that he can make the 2pm appointment. When he leaves the house in a pair of jeans and an old black t-shirt, both Luci and Mémé are suspiciously quiet and focused on their books. When he tells them to be nice and mind the sitter, they are both the picture of innocence. Clearly, something is afoot, that innocent look never bodes well for him. 

The girls’ teacher is a lovely woman and she adores the girls. She doesn’t stint on the feedback and is careful to mention not only the girls’ strengths but also a few ways he can work with them to challenge them if they want to learn more about something at home. 

Near the end of the conference, she says there’s something else she thinks would be good for the girls, for Luci especially because she’s so incredibly good at helping and mentoring other kids. Porthos smiles at the praise for his youngest and asks for specifics.

“We’re starting a French-language immersion program a few days a week after school. I know the girls are fluent, they don’t need it themselves, but they’re in after-care anyway and the instructor could use a couple of assistants. I’ve spoken to him, he’s the music teacher here, and we think Lucienne and Salomé would be a perfect fit.”

He looks up to see the mystery man walking through the common room and Ms. de Larroque says “Oh!  Speak of the devil!” and waves him over.

She introduces them and Porthos tries not to look as stunned by him as he feels. The man (“Really, the last name is too much of a mouthful, please just call me Aramis.”) tells Porthos about how much he loves having the girls in music class. He says that if Porthos is interested, Mémé would probably thrive in a more intensive piano program and that no one sings with more spirit than Luci.

People who love his kids are a weakness for Porthos and he’s half-smitten before Aramis is finished with his first few sentences. Porthos is sure that the rest of their talk centers around the girls participating in the immersion program and what their duties would be, but later he will be unable to recall any of it. He’s struck, instead, by the way Aramis’ mouth moves as he talks. His lips are a sin; the lower one is lush and wet from where he keeps licking at it and Porthos is having indecent thoughts about taking it between his teeth and pulling at it until Aramis whimpers.

His eyes are deep and soft and expressive and Porthos is lost in them almost immediately. Every time Aramis blinks, Porthos watches his eyelashes brush against his cheek and imagines how they will look resting there while Aramis is asleep. Porthos is distracted then by Aramis scratching at his neck and his mouth goes dry at the thought of being able to bury his nose against it and take in all that glorious scent he’s getting hints of right now.

When Aramis starts talking about how he looks forward to having the girls helping out after school he brings his hand down over his heart. “I know I’m not supposed to have favorites,” he whispers, forcing Porthos to lean in closer. “But, well, I don't have to tell you. They just get right in here,” Aramis drums his fingers over his heart. Porthos knows he should say something in response but at this moment he is the worst parent in the world because for a second all he can see is Aramis’ fingers wrapped around his cock, his fingers pale against Porthos’ skin.

Porthos has to physically shake his head to get rid of the visual. He passes it off by scratching behind his right ear before he makes an effort to redeem himself as a parent and have an adult conversation with their music teacher. He’s pretty sure he says that the girls will love the language program. He knows that he shakes Aramis’ hand and feels its dry warmth squeezing his own hand.

When he walks out to the parking lot, he remembers Aramis' eyes, his hair, and the feel of his skin against Porthos’ palm. He finds he’s clenching that hand, curling it in on itself and feeling the warmth of Aramis again. But of the actual conversation?  Not a word sticks with him.

The penny doesn’t drop until he is most of the way home. In all of their misguided matchmaking, his girls had unerringly picked people Porthos found attractive. They couldn’t have failed to know that Aramis would be just their Papa’s type and they hadn't said a word.

When he gets home he thanks Fleur for watching them, pays her and walks her to the door. As soon as the door closes behind her, Porthos turns to his daughters.

"You could have said something."

"You said to stop helping, Papa.”  Luci’s face is pure innocence.

"I might have put on a nicer shirt."

Salomé scoffs. "That's a great shirt, Papa. It looks nice with your pants."

"The shirt is too small."

Luci shrugs and Salomé just grins. Porthos settles on the sofa and sighs, “Okay. Tell me about him.”  The girls tuck themselves on either side of him and regale him with stories about the amazing Mr. Aramis and how perfect he is.

For weeks after that, Porthos only sees Aramis in passing while dropping off the girls in the morning. He smiles and waves and when Aramis smiles back, Porthos has to remind his heart to start again. As the weather gets cooler, Aramis takes to wearing scarves that look soft as clouds and bring out his eyes and Porthos puts his forehead against his steering wheel to let his breathing return to normal.

 

The after-school program starts and when Porthos gets home, Lucy and Mémé are full of stories about Mr. Aramis’ jokes and how nice he is and how he lets them teach the class their favorite songs from their time in Paris. Porthos picks up tidbits from the girls and he knows they’re letting bits of information out just often enough to keep him interested but just seldom enough to make him crazy. He’d be proud if he weren’t so frustrated. 

Just before Thanksgiving, the shifts at the Attaché’s office rotate and Porthos finds himself going to work earlier. It means that Fleur drops the girls off in the morning, but it also means that Porthos is there to pick them up in the afternoons. The first day of his early shift is a Tuesday, and Porthos gets to the school before the immersion program is finished. 

He pulls the door open as quietly as he can and steps into the back of the room. Constance had told him she encouraged parents to come and watch classes and be part of the experience but this is the first time he’s had the opportunity. 

Porthos pulls a chair down from a stack and settles himself against the back wall. He takes his beret from his head and scrubs his hand over his hair, then down over his face. His beard needs trimming again, he’s skirting regulations with it as it is and he makes a note to clean it up when he gets home. 

At that point, Porthos looks up to see that half the kids are looking at him. Half the kids and Aramis. His face looks utterly stunned and Porthos is suddenly nervous that he’s committed a horrible faux pas by coming into the session like this. Just as he’s about to get up and leave, Aramis’ head gives a tiny shake and his mouth closes again. 

“Look,” he says, “Salomé and Lucienne’s father has come to visit. He also speaks French. Say hello, everyone!”    Seventeen timid voices say _bonjour!_  Porthos waves his hand, smiles, and returns the greeting. 

Before long, the lessons are over and Porthos gathers his girls up into a fierce hug. Aramis smiles at them and says, “What a treat having you join us today. What’s the occasion?”

“Shift rotation change. I’m on earlier hours through February and so I’ll be doing pick-up instead of drop-off."

“Does that- Does that mean you’ll be-“ Aramis drops the folder he’s holding and a sheaf of children’s drawings scatters across the floor. Porthos stoops and helps gather them up and when he hands them to Aramis, he feels Aramis’ fingers against his own. Porthos dares a stroke of his thumb across the back of Aramis’ hand and hears Aramis give a tiny gasp.

“No idea what happened there, thank you for helping me clean them up. So if you’re on earlier hours will you be coming in to observe often?”

Porthos is staring at Aramis’ mouth, watching his lips move, and almost misses the question. “What?  Oh!  Yeah, if it’s not a problem?  It’s more fun than sitting in the car until the girls are done, and I like to watch.”

He swears he can hear a click as Aramis swallows. When he speaks, Aramis’ voice has a subtle rasp to it. “It’s not a problem at all.”

“Great!”  Porthos flashes a grin and Aramis’ gaze drops to his dimples and his eyes widen.

Aramis blinks hard and seems to collect himself  “Uhh…Oh!  Actually, would you mind doing more than just watching?”   It feels like the statement is more than a little loaded until Aramis continues, “The students are working on simple questions and it would be great for them to have someone else to ask who actually speaks the language. Would you mind helping out for a few minutes?” 

“I’d love to.”

Aramis’ smile takes over his entire face. His eyes tilt up and his teeth flash and the corners of his mouth curl and Porthos is powerless to keep from staring. “Great,” Aramis says and it’s almost a sigh. 

Porthos realizes that if he doesn’t get out of here, he’s going to grab this man and kiss him with no warning at all, and while he has his rough and tumble side, he’s not a brute. He and the girls say their goodbyes and for the entire ride home every time Porthos checks the rear-view mirror he sees the girls grinning at each other. He can only hope they’re enjoying his discomfort enough to keep from trying to “help” anymore.

 

Wednesday is not an immersion program day but Porthos sees Aramis during pick-up and gives him a smile and a wave. Aramis is wearing slate-colored cargo pants, beat-up hiking boots and - mother of god - a shawl-necked fisherman’s sweater. His hair is wild in the wind and his cheeks and nose are red from the cold and Porthos thinks that aside from his girls, he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

He feels his mouth go dry and doesn’t hear the car door shut as Luci and Salomé climb in and buckle their seat belts. He doesn’t actually hear anything but the rushing in his ears until Luci clears her throat loudly and bumps the back of his seat with the toe of her shoe. “How was your day, Papa?”

“Fi-“ he clears his throat, “Fine. How was yours?”

“Good!  We had music today and Mr. Aramis played the guitar while we sang.”  

As he’s pulling away from the curb, Porthos imagines Aramis’ fingers around the neck of a guitar. He slips shifting into second gear and can hear the transmission grind. “Tell me about the songs.” 

For the rest of the ride home, Luci and Mémé tell him about the new pieces they’re learning and about how they’re studying patterns and progressions and theory. Luci is entranced with the idea of a secret structure behind the music and Salomé just loves the way Aramis makes the notes dance.

 

On Thursday afternoon, Porthos pretends he’s not rushing to leave work but he gets to the school ten minutes earlier than he did on Tuesday. He tucks his beret under his epaulette before going indoors and again takes a seat in the back of the room. Aramis announces his presence and the kids greet him again. The four fluent French speakers spend the next half hour taking easy questions from the students and answering them slowly and deliberately without any idioms.

Porthos can see when a student suddenly understands a word or a phrase and the moment when the translation clicks into place. He learns to love the way the child’s face lights up and when Aramis announces that it’s time to put the chairs away and clean up, Porthos realizes he’s looking forward to Monday’s class.

Aramis comes up to him when Porthos and the girls are the only other people left in the room and says, “I’d like to do something to thank Lucienne and Salomé. And you, of course.”  His eyes are actually twinkling and Porthos can feel his fingers tingling with how much he wants to reach out and trace the line of Aramis’ jaw. 

“That’s not necessary, we love doing it.” 

“I know, but it’s something I want to do anyway. The girls have been such great help and the kids really reached into their vocabulary to try and impress you. You all bring out the best in them. And anyway I wasn’t thinking of anything too fancy. Just dinner?”

Porthos considers it, his palm cupped over his mouth, fingers scratching at his beard. When he draws his hand away, he can feel his fingers drag over his lower lip. Aramis is staring at his mouth and Porthos wonders if he’s accidentally smeared ink from his fingers across himself. He licks his lips and sees Aramis’ eyes go wide and the pulse jump in his neck. _Oh shit,_ he thinks. Because the only thing worse than an unrequited crush on his kids’ music teacher, is a requited one. What the hell is he supposed to do now?

Aramis blinks and says, “There’s a great little family-owned pizza joint near here. It’s up the street from my fencing club so I’m there pretty regularly. It’s usually quiet and the food is always good.”  Porthos is about to politely turn down the offer when over Aramis’ shoulder he sees Mémé with her hands clasped together and a look of naked desperation on her face as she mouths “Please please please!”   Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Lucienne bouncing on the balls of her feet next to him.

He’s going to regret this, he knows. One way or another, this is going to come back to haunt him. “Pizza it is, then. Do I need to change?”

“No!  I mean you’re fine in your uniform.”  Aramis’ smile is endearingly flustered.

 

The restaurant is a little hole in the wall place right off Georgia Avenue and Aramis is right, it’s quiet and cozy even on a Friday night. The girls fill the awkward silences with chatter about their current class projects. They’re learning about gravity and earlier in the week they’d lined a makeshift ramp with paper and dipped marbles in paint to roll down it. “Painting with gravity!”  Luci said, and her eyes were alight in a way that made Porthos fiercely glad he’d chosen the school. This is exactly the spark he was hoping to foster. 

Salomé talks about the drama her class is doing about children running their own village and how today they’d learned about needing a clean water supply. Porthos thinks about some of the places he’d been while he was still on combat duty and realizes he was twenty-seven before he’d learned about the importance of clean water. He drags Mémé over to him and hugs her so tight she starts squirming. In the end, he tickles her to cover up his moment of desperate affection but he doesn’t think she’s fooled. 

Through it all, when he isn’t asking the girls questions, Aramis is sneaking looks at Porthos and smiling. They’re tucked into a corner booth in the back and the girls have gotten in and out so many times that they’ve taken the seats on the outside leaving Porthos and Aramis on either side of the corner.

As the server comes by with their pizza, Aramis turns to look up and shifts his body. His knee brushes against Porthos’ and he jerks it away before letting it slowly come back into contact. By the time they’re all eating, Porthos’ left leg is pressed against Aramis’ right one from the knee down and once, just once, Porthos swears he feels Aramis’ foot rub against to his. 

Dear lord, he’s almost thirty-seven and he’s playing footsie on what is beginning to look shockingly like a first date. 

By the time the check comes, Aramis has “accidentally” brushed his fingers against Porthos’ hand twice and Porthos has used the excuse of reaching into his back pocket for his phone to lean into Aramis’ space press their arms together. If it wasn’t a first date to begin with, it certainly is now. 

Luci and Salomé are transparent in their motives when they ask for the keys so they can run ahead and open the car. Porthos and Aramis walk alongside each other, shoulders brushing from time to time, both of them looking up at the night sky. 

“Nice night,” Porthos says. He isn’t talking about the stars. 

“Yes, it was.”  Aramis isn’t either. 

Porthos stops a good distance from the car, his hands fisted in his jacket. He’s been shot at, jumped out of planes, and disarmed bombs, but he knows that aside from taking his girls in his arms the first time, he’s never been as scared as he is of his next words.

“I really enjoyed this. I know it started out as a thank you; I’m hoping by the end it was something different. If I’m right about that, would you like to do it again?” 

Aramis lets out a breath Porthos hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. “God, yes. So much. I would like to do this again so much.”

Porthos grins and Aramis grins back, his laugh lines creasing the corners of his eyes and his teeth flashing white in the dark night. They start walking towards the car again, this time deliberately bumping into each other’s shoulders and laughing quietly.

“This won’t get you in trouble, will it?”  Porthos asks. 

“No. It won’t.” 

“You sure?” 

“Honestly?  Constance has been needling me about my crush on you; I think she’d be disappointed in me if I didn’t take you up on it. I’m not their classroom teacher; I don’t have any influence over their grades. Besides, Charlie’s going to be in d’Artagnan’s class next year. If the school can make that work, then this is a breeze.” 

They’re standing next to Porthos’ car now and he raps on the roof. Luci rolls down the window and from her perch in the driver’s seat she says, “Yes, may I help you?”

“You’re cooking tomorrow night, Luci. What would you think of us having company for your meal?” 

Luci’s face lights up. “Oh, Mr. Aramis, please!  You have to come!” 

“If you’re free,” Porthos says. 

“I’m free. I wouldn’t miss it.”  Aramis’ smile is making Porthos’ belly twist.

“Give me your phone.”  Porthos sends himself a text from Aramis’ phone and hands it back. “I’ll text you the address, yeah?”

Aramis’ “Yeah,” is breathy and soft. 

Porthos takes Aramis’ hand in his and squeezes it, then leans forward and dares a kiss to Aramis’ cheek. His skin is warm under Porthos’ lips and Porthos can feel Aramis’ breath against his own neck. He needs to get in his car and get out of this parking lot before he loses his grip and they scandalize the children. 

“Tomorrow, then,” Aramis says. 

“Tomorrow,” Porthos answers and then jerks the car door open. “Okay ingrates, into the back seat. You’re not driving my car until you’re thirty.”   He can hear Aramis laughing and flashes a quick grin at him through the window.

The girls are blissfully quiet the entire ride home, leaving Porthos to replay the evening in his head while grinning stupidly and adjusting his fatigues where they’re suddenly tight over his groin.

 

He texts Aramis during lunch the next day. Nothing flowery, just the address and the time and a quick “Hope you can still make it.”  He isn’t expecting a reply so when the phone buzzes in his afternoon briefing and he reads “I wouldn’t miss it, looking forward to seeing you!” he has to chew on his own lip to keep from grinning inappropriately. 

The pick-up line at school that afternoon is busy and bustling and Porthos doesn’t see Aramis at all. He tries to tell himself he’s not disappointed, but even though Aramis will be at their house in less than two hours, he still misses seeing that gorgeous smile right now.

When they arrive back at the house, Porthos wrangles the girls into homework mode and takes the opportunity to tidy up a bit. It’s a house with kids, there’s no chance it’s going to be pristine, but at least he has a chance to run the dishwasher and corral all of the toys into the girls’ room before fitting in a quick shower and putting on a waffle-knit henley made soft through hundreds of washes and his favorite old jeans. 

Lucienne’s specialty is spaghetti and Porthos is her sous chef. He helps her carry the stockpot full of water, butters the garlic bread and assembles the salad. Salomé takes front-of-house duties and sets the table. When the doorbell rings all that’s left to do is let the pasta finish cooking before draining it. 

Porthos is wiping his hands off on the dishtowel thrown over his shoulder as he answers the door. When he sees Aramis, it feels like all the air has left the room. Aramis is also in jeans but he’s wearing a deep blue v-necked, long-sleeved tee. His hair is combed back from his face and his beard neatly trimmed. Porthos feels like he’s been kicked in the chest. 

One side of Porthos’ mouth curls up into a soft smile, “Hi.” 

Aramis’ answering smile is quiet but fond and there’s a hint of color in his cheeks as he says, “Hey.”

The moment is lost to the excited voices of both girls as they come running. Luci is peppering Aramis with comments about what’s for dinner and Salomé is dragging him by the wrist over to the table so she can show off her napkin sculptures. 

“Girls!”  Porthos’ voice is a quick bark. “Could we let him get his coat off first?”  There’s a chorus of apologies and as Porthos reaches to take Aramis’ coat, he sees that his hands are full. Aramis holds out the bouquet of flowers in his left hand, “For my hostesses.”  Luci gives a giddy clap and takes them into the kitchen to jam them into a pint glass. Aramis smiles at the glass and looks back to Porthos. Porthos shrugs. 

“We’re not a vase house.” 

“Well, hopefully you’re a wineglass house.”   And it’s then that Porthos sees the bottle in Aramis’ right hand.

“We certainly are. Let me take that and your coat.”  He hangs the coat on the rack by the door and takes the wine into the kitchen. Aramis is a music teacher at an elementary school so it’s doubtful the wine is of a quality that benefits from time to breathe, but opening the bottle and setting it on the counter gives Porthos something to do with his nervous hands. 

Aramis helps bring the salad to the table and helps Salomé light the candles. As they settle into their seats and the food starts getting passed around, Porthos takes a second to appreciate the sight of this gorgeous man here in his home, at his table, like he belongs here. With a quick shake of his head, he sends that thought away; he’s getting way too far ahead of himself. 

Porthos expects the dinner conversation to be a little stilted, like the night before, but it seems that once he’s on the firmer footing of a confirmed date, Aramis is entirely comfortable. He asks the girls questions about their days and then more questions that show he was actually listening and paying attention. He asks Porthos about how things were at the office and asks after Athos.

 When Aramis talks about his day, about showing the fifth graders some chords on the piano, Porthos takes the opportunity to ask if the piano is Aramis’ favorite instrument. 

“Oh no. I’m a guitar guy. I know, it’s so cliché but my grandfather taught me when I was just a boy. He was also a teacher, mathematics, but a musician in his heart. He would pull out his guitar whenever the family was together during the summer and just sit quietly and play. He sang old folk songs in Occitan and I would just sit at his feet for hours. As soon as I could put my hand around the neck of the guitar, he started showing me the basics.”   He gives a small shrug. “When I play, I feel like he’s still with me.”

“So one day you’ll be the old guy in the corner of the family get together playing Coldplay.” 

“And Stevie Ray Vaughn, exactly.”  Aramis’ laugh is loud and unselfconscious and Porthos tries to soak it in but gets distracted by the line of his neck as he throws his head back. Porthos can feel all the blood rushing to his face and tries to cover his stunned speechlessness with a quick swallow of his wine.

“Do you see your family often?”

“Not as often as I’d like. My parents are in Pittsburgh and my sisters are scattered across the states. My extended family is still back in France. I miss the long summers with them when I was a kid. But it’s a digital world and we keep in touch.”

“So… the French?” 

“My mother. My father says he imported her but really she was over here studying when they got married she just stayed. She teaches French Literature at Pitt and he gardens badly.” Aramis grins and god, that smile is a sin. 

“Must have been a hell of a romance.”

Aramis, who has been looking from person to person, at the pictures on the walls, back into his own memories, turns now to look Porthos straight in the eye and smiles. “He said he would have done anything to have her stay. That he couldn’t imagine a world without her.” 

Porthos grips his fork a little tighter and takes a deep breath. And then with every ounce of courage and calm he can muster, he smiles right back. 

Mémé, who has been patiently waiting for the grown-ups to stop flirting, clears her throat and asks if it’s time for dessert now. Porthos flashes her a grin and says, “You know the rules, clean up dinner first. And you just volunteered to load the dishwasher.”

With the girls in the kitchen, Aramis says, “You’re amazing with them. They’ve settled in so well.”

“They miss France, I know, but I couldn’t pass up this rotation and their mother will be out of the country for years yet.”

“Is she… Are you… I don’t mean to pry.” 

Porthos tries to make his smile reassuring. “You have every right to ask. We were childhood sweethearts, grew up in foster care together. There were times, lots of them, when we only had each other. She held my hand when I enlisted in the Army and I kept food on the table when she went to university.”   

He hasn’t talked about this with anyone for so long. Since the divorce, really, when he and Flea had signed the paperwork and then polished off three bottles of wine while remembering how young they’d been when they first met, and how scared. 

“All I knew was that I couldn’t imagine my world without her, and I knew she felt the same. It seems silly but we wanted something that said that we were officially important to each other. We’d always been each other’s family and when the girls came, we were a family together, me and my best friend and the two most beautiful creatures that ever existed.”

Aramis is standing there and Porthos can see his eyes growing red and watery but for the life of him he can’t stop talking. He reaches over and takes Aramis’ hand, squeezing it and brushing his thumb over the backs of Aramis’ knuckles. He brings their joined hands to his mouth and kisses the back of Aramis’ wrist. 

“People kept asking her when she was going to be finished with school and she would just say ‘When I’m done.’  When she got her doctorate, I think I was the only one who wasn’t surprised. She published this amazing paper, I don’t even pretend to know what it was about, and a university in England called and offered her a visiting faculty position. It was too good to pass up and we all knew it but I couldn’t leave, and the girls were in the middle of school. So we said we’d make it work. And we did, in a manner of speaking.” 

Porthos swirls the last of the wine in his glass and finishes it in one swallow. “It isn’t that it went wrong, it never did. If we hadn’t had time apart we might still… But we did. And that was just it. We had time apart and neither one of us fell apart. The world didn’t end. We each had our own lives and we were still there for each other. When she had a bad day, I was the first person she called and I was still happy to hear her voice. I think realizing we could be apart and still in each other’s lives made us realize how much we didn’t really want to be married, to see what we could be on our own.” 

Aramis scoots his chair closer and rests his chin on Porthos’ shoulder. It’s an intimate gesture for how long they’ve known each other but Aramis just needs more than hand-holding right now and he suspects Porthos does as well. 

“The divorce was as easy as they come and for a while the girls went back and forth. But almost as soon as she got back to France she was offered a position at CERN and we all knew what that meant for her, for her career. And the girls were so excited to be able to go visit and see a foreign country. So they stayed with me and twice a month we’d take the train out and spend the weekend there. I think we expected it to be awkward but she’s… She’s still my best friend, I think she always will be.” 

He turns and buries his nose in Aramis’ hair. “I don’t mean to sound presumptuous about any future plans but -“ 

“Porthos, she’s your best friend and the mother of your children. Would you honestly expect someone you date to begrudge her being part of your life?” 

“You say that now, but she’s applied for a position at NASA Goddard. If all goes well this will be more than just a theoretical discussion.” 

“If she’s been best friends with you for thirty years and helped raise those girls?  Then I will be thrilled to know her because she must be incredible.” 

“She is. And so are you.”  They’re sitting like that, their foreheads resting against each other, when Luci raps on the doorframe, says that the dishes are done and can they _please_ have dessert now. Porthos laughs and says yes they can, and if he wipes at his eyes a little, Aramis doesn’t say a word.

Hours later, after dessert and tea and some time sitting at opposite ends of the sofa with their feet touching, Aramis checks his watch and with a resigned sigh announces that it’s time for him to go. “A bunch of parents are repainting the playground equipment in the morning and I said I’d help.”

Porthos calls up the stairs, “Luci! Mémé!  Our guest is leaving, would you like to say goodbye?”   Two identical heads appear over the railing and both girls wave at Aramis wishing him a good night and asking if he’ll come back. He waves back and says good night in return and probably only Porthos notices that he never answers the question about whether or not he’ll be back. Porthos tries not to be nervous. 

“Okay, to bed with you both. I’m going to walk Mr. Aramis out to his car.”   Aramis raises an eyebrow.

“Are you now?”

“Hush. I like to be polite.”    

Aramis shrugs his coat on and smirks. “Well then by all means, escort me to my car.”

The neighborhood is quiet, there’s none of the street noise from the night before, and they can hear the leaves crunching underfoot and the sound of Aramis’ alarm disarming echoes like a shot. Aramis opens his car door and turns back to face Porthos, raking his hand through his own hair and looking every bit as nervous as Porthos feels. 

Facing him, Porthos is standing with his hands fisted in his pockets and rocking back and forth from the balls of his feet to his heels. “This was really nice, I’m glad you could come.” 

“It was very nice, thanks for inviting me.” 

“If I invited you again, would you come back?” 

“That depends. If I kissed you right now, would you kiss me back?” 

“Absolutely.”   

Aramis hooks his fingers into Porthos’ belt loops and tugs him closer. 

For days, Porthos will feel the ghost of Aramis’ mouth under his own. He’ll feel the scratch of Aramis’ facial hair and the warmth of his lips and smell the mingled scents of his shampoo and his leather jacket. And for the rest of his life, Porthos will never forget how all those things together make him feel in this moment. 

It’s meant to be chaste, a quick kiss at the end of a successful official first date. But any plan failed to take into account the little noise of pleasure Aramis makes in the back of his throat when their lips meet and what that noise does to Porthos. 

His hands come up, cupping Aramis' face and brushing his thumbs over his cheekbones as the kiss deepens. Aramis’ arms come up and around Porthos’ neck and Porthos’ fingers dig in behind Aramis’ jaw and in the space of a few seconds, they are dangerously close to making out against the side of a battered Subaru on a quiet suburban street. 

It’s Aramis who finally pulls back with a happy sounding sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, if you invited me I’d come back.” 

“Next week. Dinner one night?” 

Aramis brushes the backs of his knuckles down the side of Porthos’ face and Porthos turns his head to press a quick kiss into them. 

“I would love that,” Aramis says. 

“It’s a date.” 

“It is.”

There’s another quick kiss to send Aramis on his way and Porthos stands watching as the taillights disappear around a corner. When he turns back to the house, he catches the flicker of a curtain in the window of the girls’ bedroom. _They’re going to be insufferable_ , he thinks. But oh, it’s so worth it.

 

The next Thursday, Aramis comes back for dinner and it’s Porthos’ night to cook. They have chili with all the fixings and the girls want to watch Lord of the Rings. When the movie is over, the girls get ready for bed and then hug Aramis goodbye. Porthos walks him to his car again and there are more heated kisses, Aramis’ fingers sliding into Porthos’ curls and tugging his mouth closer. “Next time, I cook.” 

'Next time' is that weekend and Aramis brings the ingredients for a chicken stew his mother used to make. He comes in the early afternoon and shows the girls how to make bread. They make short round loaves and when the stew is ready that evening they hollow out the bread and pour the stew in and it is exactly the kind of hearty food Porthos loves. Aramis has also brought The Lego Movie for the girls because he knows who the real bosses of the house are. 

After dinner, the girls are wrapped up in the movie and Porthos and Aramis are in the kitchen wrapped up in each other. Ostensibly they’re doing dishes but in reality, Porthos has his thumbs dug into the hollows behind Aramis’ jaw and Aramis has his hands in Porthos’ back pockets and they are rocking their hips against each other. Porthos pushes Aramis back, both of them gasping and dragging in deep swallows of air. “Stop. If you make me come in my jeans there’s no way I can make it upstairs for a fresh pair without them finding out.” 

“Well, how about I just get you really close, then?”   Aramis grins secret and sly and Porthos grabs him by the back of the neck and they’re at it again. 

They have dinner at least one night a week for almost six weeks. They kiss and grope and neck like teenagers. Every weekend they can, they are together. Aramis goes to museums with them, to the park, to the movies. On quiet weekends at home, he shows the girls chords on his guitar or teaches them new songs while they empty the dishwasher. He teaches them his mother’s oatmeal recipe and braid’s Luci’s hair into careful intricate patterns. When Porthos stares, Aramis just shrugs one shoulder and says, “Four sisters.”

The only week when they don’t see each other is the week of Christmas. Aramis is with his parents in Pittsburgh as all his sisters are coming in to town for a big family gathering. The night before he leaves, they have dinner together and Porthos kisses him for what feels like hours. They exchange presents and it’s clear they’ve both kept it deliberately casual. Porthos receives a collection of Cary Grant movies, a personal weakness; Aramis gets a cookbook of artisanal bread recipes. Aramis gives the girls instructions on how to make fairy wings and a promise that when he gets back they’ll make them together.

On that night, as on every other night, Aramis says goodbye before the girls are in bed. They’ve both agreed that it’s best if the girls see Aramis leave. They’re taking it slow, trying to set a good example of a mature relationship, waiting to take it to the next level, but they ache for each other at night.

 

In the end, of course, it’s neither one of them who moves things along. It’s a cold Saturday morning in January and Porthos is making waffles. He’s carrying the eggs from the refrigerator to the mixing bowl when Luci says, “Papa, why doesn't Mr. Aramis spend the night when he comes over?”

The rushing in his ears dulls the sound the eggs make when they hit the kitchen floor. Porthos grabs a handful of paper towels and as he’s wiping up the mess he says, “Well, we want to make sure you’re both comfortable with this relationship.”  He turns back to the refrigerator, pulling out the milk. “We want to make sure you are okay with him being in our house, in our lives. With him spending time with us.” 

Luci’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Okay. But... how will you find time to have sex if you don’t have any time together after we go to bed?”  Porthos’ grip slips on the milk and he watches the spill spread out over the counter.

“We like Mr. Aramis, Papa. We don’t mind if you’re having sex with him. It’s okay with us, we discussed it. 

Porthos drops his head into his hands and rubs at his temples, hoping to keep the thumping in his head to a dull roar. “Of course you did.”   He wipes up the milk and puts the now half-full carton in front of the girls. He puts a box of cereal in front of them, all notions of a homemade breakfast now gone. 

“So you want me to have Mr. Aramis over and tell him it’s okay to spend the night?” 

Luci says, “Yeah,” around a mouth full of Cheerios.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”  Porthos pulls out his mobile and dials Aramis. 

When he hears Aramis’ sleep-warm voice say, “ _Hey, handsome_ ,” Porthos feels his heart stutter. 

“The girls would like for me to invite you to our house for a sleepover.”   

Aramis laughs. “The kind of sleepover where we braid each other’s hair and watch One Direction videos? Because Luci is wrong, Zayn is the cutest.” 

Porthos pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and thinks, _Jesus. I’m in love with an idiot._

There’s a long silence and Porthos looks up to see both girls staring at him with their mouths open. Oh shit. He said that out loud. He just said that out loud. Before he can backpedal, he hears Aramis speak again.

“Porthos… if you tell me you think Harry is the cutest, I’m afraid we can’t see each other anymore.”   Aramis is letting it go and Porthos is nakedly grateful. 

"So. It's Saturday."

From across the breakfast bar Luci yells, "Please come over!" 

Mémé adds, "Papa will make waffles!”

Porthos can’t keep the smile out of his voice when he says, “Please?” 

Half an hour later, Aramis is at the door. He’s wearing jeans with holes in the knees and what Porthos can confirm after hugging him is the softest flannel shirt in the world. 

The day is idyllic. The girls watch cartoons and get into a debate about which of the Avengers is the coolest. Aramis takes them to the comic book store so they can pick out comics with each of their favorites.

In the afternoon, they perfect their paper airplane techniques and do experiments testing the best designs for lift and distance. There is a long trip to the grocery store to get ingredients for dinner and they all cook together.

They eat early and dinner is over by half-past six. The girls begin to yawn extravagantly. “So sleepy, Papa,” Luci says and Porthos tries to ignore their meddling.

“Not so fast, you guys are on dish duty.” 

By the time the kitchen is clean, Porthos and Aramis have queued up a movie and are curled against each other on the couch. The girls give hugs and kisses and very conspicuously take themselves off to bed. 

Through the entire beginning of the movie, they can hear the Lucienne and Salomé giggling on the landing. At one point, Porthos baits them by turning to kiss Aramis on the crown of his head just to hear the girls make a happy sighing sound. 

By the time the movie is over, there isn’t a sound from upstairs and both men are running short on patience. They turn the lights out and climb the stairs and sure enough, both girls are passed out in a nest of blankets right at the top step. They can see down through the bannister into the living room below, it’s the perfect vantage point. 

Aramis whispers, “They’d be excellent snipers.”

Porthos gives a low chuckle and picks up Luci and carries her into bed. He makes a second trip with Salomé and Aramis follows with the pillows and blankets they’d stripped from the beds. Porthos kisses their foreheads, brushing their hair back and gently tucking it behind their ears.

He turns to find Aramis watching from the doorway, hipshot and leaning against the doorframe. “Sometimes I just can’t imagine how I love them so much,” Porthos says. 

“How could you not?  They’re amazing.” 

Porthos kisses him, a chaste promise of things to come and a thank you all in one. “Come on, you,” and then Aramis is being led down the hall, his hand wrapped in Porthos’ bigger one. 

There’s a moment of awkward shyness when they finally make it to Porthos’ bedroom. They’ve been making out on couches, necking behind closed doors and groping each other in secluded corners for weeks. Now when they have the freedom to touch, look, and take their time, they are both more than a little nervous. 

Porthos reaches for his top button, his fingers awkward on the buttonhole.

“Let me,” says Aramis, and he takes a step closer and strokes his fingers along Porthos’ collar until he reaches the buttons down the front of his shirt. Aramis plucks them open one at a time. He can feel how warm Porthos’ skin is, and when he dares a look at Porthos’ neck, Aramis can see the pulse jumping in his veins.

Aramis pushes the shirt off Porthos’ shoulders and stops to stare for a long moment. He’s dreamed about what this body would look like naked in the lamplight, taken himself in his fist and imagined every inch of Porthos’ skin as his disposal, but the reality is like a thunderbolt. For all their fumbling, they’ve stayed fully clothed, there has never been skin and now it seems there can never be enough. Porthos is, quite simply, stunning. 

And now that he’s had a glimpse?  Aramis wants to see it **all**. He grabs at Porthos’ belt and starts tugging only to feel Porthos’ hands on his own. “Wait. Hold up. My turn." 

Porthos slides his hands along Aramis’ waist, when he reaches the small of Aramis’ back he slips his fingers under and then works his way back around to his sides. Porthos’ hands are warm and dry against Aramis, skimming up his ribcage and stretching Aramis’ arms over his head. Aramis’ shirt falls to the ground behind him and then Porthos’ hands are everywhere. They’re cupping Aramis’ shoulders, stroking over his neck, dragging down over his chest and pressing, flat and broad, over his shoulder blades. There’s just so much **skin**. 

They’re almost of a height but Porthos has to drop his head just a little to let their foreheads meet. For a moment, that’s the only place they’re touching, breathing into each other’s mouths and waiting to calm down enough that they can lean into each other just that little bit more and start kissing. It feels like it’s been weeks since they last kissed.

Aramis takes a second to just stare down at the expanses of Porthos’ skin, golden in the dim light of the bedroom. His hands come up to wrap as far around Porthos’ biceps as he can, which isn’t far, actually, and god that kind of strength makes Aramis’ mouth go dry. When the kiss finally comes, when Porthos finally tilts his chin in that last little bit, Aramis can’t help the noise he makes. It’s a keening, breathy sound and his fingers dig into Porthos’ arms.

There will never be enough time for kissing for them. They’ve kissed in dark corners, in parked cars, in Aramis’ deserted classroom and in Porthos’ kitchen while the girls watch TV but they never feel they’ve had enough. Even now, with the night stretching out before them, they kiss like they are going off to war. Eventually Porthos pulls back and brushes his mouth lightly over Aramis’ neck before getting back to what he feels is the task at hand.

His gaze is focused and intense and he’s chewing lightly on his lower lip as he runs his fingers over Aramis’ belt. HIs fingers graze the skin along the waistband of Aramis’ jeans and his nails scratch lightly at the hair just below Aramis' navel.

“Porthos… you’re killing me."

Porthos’ flashes a grin and then his fingers are quick and clever on the buttons of Aramis’ fly, but the seconds he takes between each button are a lifetime. After the buttons are all finally undone, Porthos cups his palms over Aramis’ hips, hooks his thumbs into his belt loops, and tugs the jeans until they are far enough down to fall of their own accord, pooling around Aramis’ feet.

Porthos leans into his space further, runs a hand down Aramis’ back and pulls one of his legs up. When he hooks into Aramis' knee and pulling his foot free of his jeans, he is unreasonably pleased that they’re a household where shoes are taken off at the door. He’s not sure he has the patience to deal with untying shoes right now and those jeans need to finish coming off. 

Aramis’ boxer briefs finally hit the floor on top of his jeans and he’s naked under Porthos’ gaze. It feels like Porthos is taking him apart in all the best ways. Porthos’ hands cup Aramis’ face and there are more slow, drugging kisses. Aramis is helplessly jerking his hips against Porthos, feeling the scrape of denim against his skin and desperate for something more. His pleas are just whimpers muffled by Porthos’ lips but the meaning is clear. 

Porthos sneaks his hand down, scratching at the skin above Aramis’ hipbones before pressing his palm against Aramis’ cock, giving him warm skin to push against. “Make that noise again,” he says.

Aramis chokes out, “What noise?”   Porthos’ hand presses against him then, in and down to drag the skin of Aramis’ cock over the hard flesh underneath it and Aramis gives a helpless whine.

“That one.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Mmm. Probably.”

Porthos hooks Aramis’ leg around his waist again, pulling his knee up and then running his fingers along the underside of Aramis’ thigh. He strokes over the join where Aramis’ ass meets his leg and then runs his fingers along the crease of his ass, cupping and pulling one half away from the other. Aramis is hitching his hips desperately, trying to get Porthos’ fingers against him by sheer force of will.

Finally the pads of Porthos’ fingers are stroking and dragging against Aramis’ hole. Not even pressing in, just gliding and rubbing and reminding Aramis how much pleasure can be had from just the simple touch of skin against skin. Aramis’ heel is digging into Porthos’ thigh and his breath is speeding up. It feels like this has been going on forever when Aramis says, “Porthos, please, I’m dying here. Are you going to fuck me at some point tonight?”

Porthos drops Aramis’ leg and when Aramis scrambles to try and bring it up again Porthos puts one hand in the center of Aramis’ chest and holds him against the wall. “No, I’m not.”  And then with a flash of dimple, he reaches his other hand down and wraps it around Aramis’ desperate cock and squeezes. Aramis’ has been watching Porthos’ fingers wrap around him and when the squeeze comes he slams his head back into the wall so hard he sees stars. 

He gropes for Porthos’ neck, pulling him closer. “Kiss me, please. I need you to be kissing me.”  And how can Porthos refuse? 

Porthos’ fingers are a tease and a delight and for long moments he doesn’t even move his hand. He just squeezes and releases and gently rubs his fingers along the skin. Aramis’ arms are around Porthos’ neck and he’s biting kisses into the tendon at the join of Porthos’ neck and shoulder. 

When Porthos starts actually stroking his cock, Aramis loses his ability to concentrate on anything but that feeling and he’s no longer kissing, just resting his forehead against Porthos’ ear and gasping against his neck. He can hear Porthos’ voice against his ear. 

“Love those noises from you. You can’t even help yourself and god, you don’t know what that does to me. Want to hear how you sound when you fall apart. Are you going to fall apart for me, Aramis?” 

And god, he so fucking is. Porthos can feel Aramis’ breath hot against his neck, his arms clinging desperately, and can hear the choking sobs in the back of Aramis’ throat. Porthos doesn’t know if Aramis is even aware that he’s just repeating “Please. Please. Please.”

Porthos’ teeth against the curve of his ear is the last thing Aramis was expecting and he’s utterly unprepared for how it makes him shout and jerk his hips violently. The chuckle from Porthos is a low rumble against Aramis’ chest, felt more than heard, and he’s never been this turned on. When Porthos puts his mouth against the skin just below Aramis’ ear and bites down, Aramis gives another desperate shout and is completely undone. The only warning either of them gets is the shudder that starts at Aramis’ chest and radiates out and then Aramis is coming over Porthos’ hand.

Pulling back to watch his face, Porthos can see Aramis’ mouth hanging open, his expression a mask of surprise. His eyes are clenched shut and every time his cock spasms, Aramis’ eyes squeeze tighter and then release.

“I don’t want to question my own technique, but are you alright?”

Aramis’ response is a breathy laugh. “Yeah, just surprised. I never knew that spot did anything for me. Hell of a way to find out.”

“Well, I’m always about exploring new territory.”  Porthos kisses Aramis’ temple and noses into his hair, he feels Aramis relax against him and one finger at a time releases his grip on Aramis’ cock before wiping his hand on his own jeans. Aramis wrinkles his nose. 

“Did you just...” 

“They’re going in the wash straight away, shut it.” 

Aramis laughs again and lets his head loll back against the wall, rolling from one side to the other as though he’s stretching his neck. When he looks back at Porthos, his grin is almost predatory. “My turn.” 

With one hand braced against the center of Porthos’ chest, Aramis glances around the room quickly to get his bearings and then pushes Porthos back until his knees hit the edge of the bed. Aramis drops into a low crouch, his hands at Porthos’ waist and his nose dragging along the curve of Porthos’ hipbones. He mouths at the skin there, kissing it, scraping his teeth over it, feeling it warm under his tongue. 

Aramis opens Porthos’ jeans, pushing them and the boxers under them to mid-thigh and then tugging from the bottoms of the legs until Porthos is laid bare. His cock is hard, curving up and slightly to the left. Porthos sees Aramis’ eyes grow briefly wide and then hungry at the sight. Then, Aramis’ palms are flat against the fronts of Porthos’ thigh, pushing firmly.

When Porthos is seated on the bed, Aramis hooks him behind the knees and pulls him forward until he’s perched at the edge of the mattress, his legs splayed wide. Aramis goes to his knees, sparing a few minutes to run his hands along the length of Porthos’ legs, feeling the wiry hairs tickling his palms and cupping the bones at Porthos’ ankles. He presses a soft kiss to the inside of Porthos’ left thigh, humming against the skin.

Aramis’ nose traces up the underside of Porthos’ cock and Porthos can hear him taking in deep breaths, soaking up Porthos with all of his senses. When Aramis’ mouth finally closes over the head of Porthos’ cock, Porthos digs his fingers into the sheets, feeling them bunch in his fists. Aramis is making pleased noises and his mouth is so fucking wet.

The blowjob is enthusiastic and sloppy and perfect. A few minutes into it, Porthos catches movement at the edges of his vision. He turns and realizes that Aramis has arranged them so that they are visible in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Porthos can see them there, himself with his legs open and Aramis on his knees on the floor and he lets out a gasp at the image. It’s completely breathtaking. 

Aramis stops dead but doesn’t take his mouth off of Porthos, just sits with Porthos’ cock heavy on his tongue. It takes a moment for Porthos to catch on, but eventually he brings his hands up to cradle Aramis’ head and brings his hips up, just once and gently. Porthos moans as the happy noise Aramis makes vibrates around his cock and between the sound and the feeling of Aramis’ fingers rubbing gently on his thighs, Porthos realizes he’s following Aramis’ plan perfectly. He threads his fingers into Aramis’ hair, and Aramis moans again but when Porthos tugs slightly, Aramis swats at his hands. 

“Got it, no pulling. God, Aramis, your mouth…"

Porthos is sure that Aramis has plenty of flashy technique and tricks up his sleeve but not tonight. Tonight, he sits still and keeps his mouth wet and slack as Porthos moves his head, fucking his face. When the end comes, Porthos is fucking his hips up towards Aramis’ face, feeling his cock slicking along Aramis’ tongue and the head rubbing against the roof of Aramis’ mouth. His world has narrowed down to the point where Aramis’ lips meet his cock and the expression on Aramis’ face when he looks up at Porthos. Their eyes meet for just a second and then Porthos sees Aramis’ eyelashes flutter and his eyelids fall shut in a look of unabashed pleasure.

That simple surrender sends Porthos over the edge and he tries to pull Aramis’ head up only to feel Aramis dig his fingernails into Porthos’ thighs. He wants this, it seems, and Porthos gives in. The only noise he makes is a strangled groan and then he’s coming in Aramis’ perfect wet mouth. When the spasms stop, Porthos slides forward off the bed and to his knees on the floor in front of Aramis. He’s almost in Aramis’ lap, holding his face and brushing kisses over Aramis’ eyebrows, his cheeks, his mouth. 

“You are perfect. So perfect taking me like that. I am so lucky.”

There is more kissing then. There is sappy romantic kissing in the shower, there is sweet soft kissing while they’re putting on sleep clothes, and there are lazy dragging kisses when they’re curled around each other in bed, trying to soak up every second together and fighting sleep the whole time. In the end, they’re asleep before midnight but wake again at three, discovering the hard way that sleeping with anyone else in the same bed will take some adjusting.

They discover a few more things that night. For one, they’re neither one of them above some adolescent humping against each other with their pajama pants pulled down. Aramis learns that if he pinches Porthos’ nipples between his fingernails, Porthos makes the most delicious noises; while Porthos learns that if he kisses Aramis as Aramis is coming, he’ll throw his arms around Porthos’ neck and whimper into his mouth. Also, Aramis is the kind of man who not only brings a facecloth back from the toilet; he’s the kind of man who soaks it in warm water first. Porthos loves him for it.

 

In the morning, as promised, Porthos makes waffles. The girls are unfazed at Aramis’ presence before breakfast until both men take to scandalizing them by hugging and kissing in the middle of the kitchen. Lucienne rolls her eyes. 

“God, Papa. Gross!” 

“It was your idea!”

Luci and Salomé clean the kitchen after breakfast and then retire to their room where they’re both still engrossed in their comic books. Porthos and Aramis sit on the sofa, pressed against each other, their legs nearly intertwined beneath the quilt, and watch what feels like an entire season of Deadliest Catch. 

At one point, it must be in the afternoon because the room is flooded with warm light, Aramis nudges his elbow into Porthos’ ribs hard enough to make Porthos flinch and say “Ow, god!  What?” 

Aramis’ smile is downright dopey. “Me too.”

It takes a second but Porthos' answering smile is dazed and pleased all at once. “Yeah?"

“Yeah. Say it again?”

“I’m in love with you.” 

“I’m in love with you, too.”

They’re still making out on the couch when Salomé comes out of the girls’ room to make lunch. She passes the sofa on the way to the kitchen and again a few minutes later with two sandwiches. She grunts disgustedly both times. Porthos can feel Aramis smiling against his mouth.

 

It’s early the next Saturday morning when Aramis meets the girls’ mother for the first time. They’re on their weekly Skype call with her and Aramis thinks he’s out of range of the webcam as he walks over to the couch to get something out of his bag. He’s not, as it turns out. He can hear her voice from the speakers of the laptop saying “Aramis?  I seeeee you!”

Aramis freezes like a deer in headlights. He hasn’t spoken to the girls’ mother yet. Everyone speaks of her with love and pride, and it’s obvious that no matter past tense of her marriage to Porthos, she is very much present in their lives. His look of terror is almost cartoonish. 

Luci and Mémé laugh and the smiling blonde with the adorable nose says “Come over here!”  The girls scoot apart to make room and Aramis sits on the couch between them. He gives a timid wave and smile; she smiles and waves back.

“Hi, you look nervous.”

“Well…” he trails off. He’s completely intimidated by this woman. She’s a physicist, she’s an amazing mother, and she’s managed to keep her friendship with Porthos. Even if he didn’t know she’d basically worked her way up from nothing, Aramis would be impressed with where she is. Porthos almost exclusively calls her by his childhood nickname for her but Aramis knows her real name from the weekly emails the teachers and administrators send out. 

“Okay,” he says, “let’s start over.”   He shakes his shoulders out and gives a big smile. “Hi, Karine, so nice to finally meet you!” 

She laughs and it’s an echo of how Salomé sounds when she’s discovered something new. "I’ve heard so much about you! Luci says you teach music at their school. She’s hoping you’ll teach her to play the guitar so she can be a rock star.”

“She’s got a great ear for music, she’d be a raging success.” 

“You know the way to a mother’s heart, you charmer. Okay, enough of the arts, tell me about the STEM programs at the school, Porthos doesn’t understand what I’m looking for enough to tell me and the girls can’t ever get past how much fun they’re having, which is as it should be.” 

Aramis tells her about how they’re integrating the STEM work into every project. He says they teach the scientific method and they do charting and experimentation whether they’re talking about rainbows or marbles or apples. She loves the holistic approach. Not only does she think that practical application is the best way to make lessons really sink in, the experiments the girls are doing remind her of how she fell in love with science at their age by watching a peanut sprout in a plastic cup.

By the time Porthos wanders through the room, the girls are sprawled on the floor reading and playing games on their phones. Aramis is hunched in front of the laptop gesturing wildly and explaining that they should sell prints of the patterns particles make as they hit in the collider because that is clearly art, no doubt about it. Porthos knows that look and chuckles to himself.

Porthos drapes himself over the back of the sofa, coming into frame on the laptop screen just over Aramis’ right shoulder. “Hey, you!  I know that tone he’s got, and it means you’ve got your hooks into him. No stealing my boyfriend!”  Porthos laughs and so does Karine and Aramis just swallows and tries not to look stunned that Porthos has just used the word “boyfriend” to describe him. 

“Hey, I can’t help it, he’s smart and cute and you know I’m a sucker for smart and cute, look who I married. Okay, I have a guest lecture I want to get to, you all be good and stop scandalizing the girls just for fun.” 

Porthos tries to look offended. “I’m not buying that,” she says, “I’ve known you too long. Goodnight, gentlemen.” 

“Goodnight, Karine,” Aramis says and she stops and smiles at him with genuine fondness. 

“Aramis, please. It’s Flea.”   She blows a kiss to them both and yells for the girls to come over and say goodbye. 

A few minutes later, Porthos finds Aramis back in the office, a pile of books spread out over his lap. “Hey. So you survived first contact.” 

“She’s amazing, Porthos. No matter what else happened I’m glad you got to keep your friend.” 

“She says you’re amazing, too.” 

Aramis tilts his head up for a kiss and Porthos obliges. “So. Boyfriend?” 

“Yeah. You wanna make something of it?” 

“Not while the girls are still awake.”  Aramis’ grin is wicked and Porthos can’t help but kiss it right off his face.

 

Porthos’ birthday is in early February and Aramis helps the girls buy him a couple of books he’s been wanting. On their own, they also present him with a card with a slip of paper inside.

“What’s this?" 

“Read it,” Luci says with a long-suffering tone. 

“It’s a coupon for one kid-free night because you’ll be sleeping over at Chloe’s house.”

“Yes,” Mémé nods.

“You’ve been wanting to have a sleepover at Chloe’s house for weeks.”

“Right, but this is a coupon.”

“And you’ve specified which night it’s for." 

“Papa, you’re ruining the coupon.”

“I’m sorry, you’re right.”  He smiles and both dimples deepen as he looks at his gorgeous girls. “This is wonderful, girls. You know I love you and I love all the time I get to spend with you-“

“Papa, we could use a break.”  Luci’s voice is resigned but honest.

“You and Mr. Aramis kiss _a lot,_ Papa,” Salomé says and Luci is nodding emphatically.

Porthos can’t help but laugh. “Okay, next Saturday night it is. You’ve cleared this with Chloe and she’s asked her mom?”  They keep nodding. “I’ll email her and settle the details.”

He emails Aramis while he’s at it. _The girls will be away for all of Saturday night. Any way I could talk you into a sleepover of our own?_ Aramis’ response is the word ‘yes’ in thirteen different languages.

 

Aramis is out late on Friday night; he’s volunteered to take over for the kids’ fencing coach at his salle while she’s home nursing a sick baby. When he gets to the house early Saturday afternoon, he walks into what is clearly a long-running discussion.

“Papa,” Salomé says, "we're poor motherless girls-“

“Oh, not this again.”

Luci counters, “It’s true!  We’re alone and friendless in this strange land.” 

"Strange land? You're in the suburbs, Lucienne.” 

"How will we ever learn the ways of this confusing culture?” 

“Luci, I'm tired, it was an incredibly long week, we are not going to the mall.” 

The click of the latch as Aramis closes the front door draws Luci’s attention and he can almost hear laser sights locking on to him. “Mr. Aramis would take us.” 

“Well, if Mr. Aramis would take you, then you should go with Mr. Aramis. I have laundry and cleaning to do.” 

Aramis swallows, he’s never taken the girls out alone before but he’s willing to try. He loves spending time with them. “I’ll take you guys to the mall if you want to go.”   All three heads swivel in his direction and Porthos looks like he’s just been given a reprieve from the noose. 

“Seriously?  You don’t have to!” 

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. What time do they have to be back to go to the sleepover?”

“Three? Three-thirty?”

Aramis bustles the girls into their coats and out the door. He kisses Porthos softly, swiping his tongue over Porthos’ lower lip before pulling back. “Turn the music up loud, take some time for yourself, don’t just do chores. I love you.” 

Porthos rests his forehead against Aramis’ and brushes their noses together. “I love you.”

They’re gone for just over two and a half hours and when they come back in the door Porthos has gotten all the laundry in the wash, swiped the bathrooms clean, and is passed out on the couch napping. Aramis bends to kiss him, trying to keep images of Disney princesses out of his head.

Porthos’ sleepy smile makes Aramis’ knees weak. “Hey, you’re back.”  He glances down. “What are you wearing on your feet?”

“Pedicure sandals.” 

“Really.” 

“We got pedicures.” 

“Of course you did.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with a little pampering, Porthos.” 

“Hot pink?”

“The girls picked it out. They were arguing over who should get which color and I told them if they could agree on one I’d get it too. This is what they settled on. They liked the name.”

“What’s it called?”

“Snog.”

Porthos’ mouth quirks up on one side. “Well, if you insist,” and he reels Aramis in by the strings of his hoodie and kisses him long and hard enough to make both girls groan.

By 4pm, Porthos is standing in front of the door spinning his keys on his finger. “Hurry up, girls. Chloe’s expecting you and if you’re not ready to go in three minutes, Mr. Aramis and I are just going to stand here in the middle of the room and kiss."   

When the girls are ready, Porthos says, “I’ll be back in an hour, are you okay here?” 

“Yeah.”  Aramis nods. “I’ve got TV and books and some notation scribbles I want to get on to actual sheet music.” 

Porthos gives him a quick kiss. “See you soon,” he says and tugs the door closed behind them. 

He comes back through the door a little over an hour later expecting to find Aramis on the sofa watching Dirty Jobs or finishing the book he’s been reading this week. He is _not_ expecting to find Aramis standing next to a kitchen table perfectly set for dinner for two. Nearly all the lights are off and there are candles everywhere and god, it smells _amazing._  

“What is this?” 

“Happy Birthday?  Happy Valentine’s Day?  Happy You Take Care of Everyone Let Me Take Care of You Day?   Why do I need a reason?”   He loops his arms over Porthos’ neck and kisses him as though they have all night. 

“You’ve been busy.” 

“I made most of it last night so I could just reheat it and put the mushrooms and onions in tonight. I got the bread while I was out with the girls” 

“It smells fantastic. Boeuf Bourguignon?” 

“I could tell you it’s an old family recipe, but I looked it up on the internet. It’s a new family recipe.” 

Porthos can’t help but kiss him again. “It’s perfect.” 

“You haven’t even tasted it.” 

“It’s perfect.”   Aramis smiles and kisses him back.

Porthos has two bowls of stew and soaks up the last bits of the second bowl with chunks of crusty bread. They make their way through the bottle of wine and it leaves them both fuzzy and languid. When dinner is finished, Aramis blows out the candles. Porthos doesn’t resist when Aramis’ fingers circle his wrist and tug him towards the bedroom. 

There are candles in here as well, what seems like dozens of votive in cups are spread out around the room, each flickering and warm. 

They kiss lazy and slow and Aramis takes his time unbuttoning Porthos’ shirt, sliding it off his shoulders. As each shoulder is exposed, Aramis presses kisses against it. Porthos tries to return the gesture but Aramis shakes his head. “Let me.” 

So Porthos is still, patient, while Aramis strips him as though he is unwrapping a precious gift. Every newly-exposed patch of skin is kissed, licked, sucked. Aramis helps him out of his shirt, his jeans, his underwear and socks, and when Porthos is gloriously naked Aramis takes a moment just to soak it all in. He could see this every day for the rest of his life and never grow used to how beautiful Porthos is.

“My turn?” Porthos asks.

“No.”  He backs Porthos up against the bed and then says, “You lay down, face first.”  Porthos’ eyes grow wide and excited and he scrambles into position with his arms down by his sides. He can hear Aramis stripping off his own clothes, the clink of his belt buckle and the slip of denim as his jeans come off and are draped over the bedside chair. When the sounds of clothing being removed stop, he feels the bed sink under Aramis' weight and then the feeling of warm skin pressed against his own almost from head to toe. 

God, he loves this. He loves the feeling of Aramis blanketing him. 

At first Aramis just strokes his palms over Porthos, starting at his hands and brushing up his arms, over his shoulders and down his back. Aramis' fingers skim down his sides, careful to press hard enough not to tickle, and then he is scratching lightly down the backs of Porthos’ thighs. When Aramis’ palms rest warm and heavy over the meat of Porthos’ calves and then come down to circle his ankles, he feels like every inch of him has been touched. 

The room is silent except for the sounds of their breathing so the click of the bottle cap opening is like a shot. Porthos’ back tenses up again and Aramis chuckles drily. “Relax. I promise you you’ll get more warning. I won’t just spring it on you when you’re at my mercy.” 

Bunched muscles in Porthos’ back loosen again and he smiles. His fists open and fingers relax and he feels Aramis lift his hands from his sides, bringing them to rest on the bed over his head. Aramis pauses to kiss each palm, to nip at the pads of his thumbs and drag his teeth along the heels of Porthos’ hands. 

The bottle turns out to be filled with scented massage oil. Aramis takes a moment to rub his palms together, warming the oil before taking Porthos’ huge hands in his and working his thumbs into the muscles. Porthos hasn’t ever realized how much he keeps his fists bunched until Aramis works his thumbs in between the joints and pulls at each finger. He can feel the tension draining out his fingertips and imagines how good Aramis’ hands will feel over the rest of his body. 

Aramis works his way up Porthos’ arms, kissing each new section he comes to, kissing and nipping at it before stroking his warm, slick hands over the skin. He spends long, loving moments with his hands circling Porthos’ biceps and the room fills with the smell of bergamot and cedar wood. 

When Aramis’ fingers begin to dig into the hollow at the base of Porthos’ skull, he can’t help the long groaning sound he makes. If this is how it feels just at the top of his neck, Porthos can’t imagine how good Aramis’ hands will feel on his back. Aramis’ lips continue to map every stretch of skin as he comes to it and Porthos feels like every inch Aramis has touched is glowing. He stops now and then to warm more oil between his palms, making sure that the stroke of his hands over Porthos’ skin is a barely-there drag.

Instead of moving straight down Porthos’ back, Aramis stops to lavish affection on his shoulders, feeling the huge muscles dimple under his fingers and hearing the long, helpless sigh Porthos lets out as the weight of the week drips off of him. Porthos is expecting after his shoulders Aramis will move down to his upper back. He isn’t expecting Aramis to shuffle on his knees down to Porthos’ legs and lift his left ankle, placing a soft kiss at the arch of Porthos’ foot. 

His fingers press hard enough to avoid tickling and when his mustache and beard scrape at the delicate skin behind Porthos’ knees, Aramis stops to soothe it with his lips and tongue. The pressure of Aramis’ thumbs along the fronts of Porthos’ shins is something he never expected to almost hurt but when Aramis works the knots free, Porthos feels only a combination of dull ache and relieved tension. Aramis is taking Porthos apart piece by piece and learning his body. 

In fact, Aramis is doing more than learning, as his hands work up and over Porthos’ hips, circling down to press at his lower back Porthos realizes that Aramis is adoring him. He’s pressing his lips and his hands and, in some cases his forearms and tongue, against every part of Porthos, worshipping him in the soft candlelight of the room. It’s been so long since Porthos could just let go like this and trust himself in someone else’s hands. He doesn’t remember how to be cared for but Aramis is reminding him. 

And oh, when he finally digs his knuckles and the heels of his hands into Porthos’ back, it’s glorious. So much tension has already leached out of his skin that it doesn’t take long for Porthos to sink into a boneless heap on the bed. He almost misses when Aramis’ hands skim over his ass the first time, but not the second. Aramis’ fingers are light and his hands are slick and on the pass back up he digs his fingers in, making furrows in the meat of the muscles. 

After that, there are long passes from Porthos’ ankles up and over his ass, stroking clear up to his fingers so Aramis can intertwine his own with them, squeeze, and then skim back down. An eternity later, it seems, Aramis is slicking his hands over Porthos’ ass cheeks, his thumbs dipping into the crease and letting the oil slip down into it. On the upsweep, he pulls the cheeks apart a little, letting the pads of his thumbs skate over the hole between them. He circles over Porthos’ hips and the cycle repeats again and again until Porthos’ mouth is dry from panting. 

The bed shifts again and then Porthos can feel Aramis’ lips at his ear. “Remember I said you’d get more warning?”

Porthos smiles and his “Mmhmm,” is slow and sleepy-sounding. 

“This is your warning. Is this alright?” 

“Yeah, god, yes. I’m so relaxed right now I’m not even sure I need much warning.” 

“Oh, Porthos. If you think I’m going to rush this now, then you haven't been paying attention.”

His hands are on Porthos' ass again, kneading the big muscles, tugging and pulling at them, circling his hands and letting his fingers brush against Porthos’ hole. There’s more oil then, he must have been warming it between his thighs because it’s not cold, as Aramis lets it dribble directly into the slot of Porthos’ ass. His curled knuckles are nudging and rubbing against Porthos and Porthos is breathing faster now.

Aramis is alternating pulling the hole open with his thumbs and rubbing his knuckles into it, feeling the tight muscles stretching under the pressure. After a few minutes, he adds a twist with his knuckle, watching the ring of Porthos’ ass give way slightly under it. It’s simple anatomy, he knows, but there’s never been anything as beautiful as Porthos. When he’s able to sink his knuckle past the first ring, Aramis tries a thumb and finds that between the oil and the massage, it slips in and out with very little pressure. 

Porthos can hear oiled skin against skin again, but Aramis only has one hand on him, and it’s just resting still against his right hip. When it clicks for Porthos what’s coming next, his eyes squeeze shut and he rolls his shoulders letting the pleasure of anticipation run through him. They’ve waited so long, worked around awkward timing and been so patient, they’d given each other cards with their negative screening test results in them for Valentine’s Day, and it’s all been leading up to this. 

All of Porthos’ attention is focused on that one small part of himself and so it’s a surprise to feel Aramis’ body stretched over his again. He’s so warm and all that gorgeous skin is pressed against Porthos and it feels so damn good. Aramis’ cock is snug between the halves of Porthos’ ass, slick and dragging against his entrance as Aramis murmurs low in his ear. 

“I have been thinking about this for months, you know?  The minute you walked into my music room in those gorgeous fatigues with your boots and that fucking smile, I wanted to cover you like this. You have no idea what the sight of you in uniform does to me.”

Aramis is fucking against his ass now, the head of his cock pushing against his hole and then slipping free so the rest of his cock can slide against that sensitive knot of skin. Porthos’ skin is as slick as Aramis’ cock and the pull of them against each other is delicious. He keeps it up, each time pushing his head against Porthos just a touch harder while he continues talking. 

“Then I saw past the uniform to who you really are. You’re amazing. Did you know that?  You take care of everyone around you. You take care of your family and you take care of me. You take care of your job and your friends. You’re so good, Porthos. So good to them and so good to me. Let me be good to you. Let me take care of you.”

By now, Aramis has given up sliding the length of his cock along Porthos and is just pressing the head against his hole and pulling it back. The pressure is so light, it barely feels like it’s stretching him but every time Aramis is able to push a little further in and his “Let me, let me, let me,” is a litany in Porthos’ ear. 

Porthos has only bottomed a few times in his life and each of them started out tense, and more than a little anxious, but Aramis' hands have stroked the tension completely out of him, Aramis’ voice has drained any anxiety. Aramis has taken him apart and put him back together. So when the head of Aramis’ cock finally sinks past the tight ring of Porthos’ ass, the only thing Porthos feels is a beautiful, aching fullness that is somehow still not enough. 

He finally finds his voice. “More.” 

“More?”

“Yes. _Please_.” 

“So polite, my love. How much more?” 

“All of it. Please, Aramis, I need all of it. Need every bit of you in me, over me, fuck!”  He’s hitching his hips up, trying to bring Aramis deeper but Aramis is punishingly slow. Porthos’ voice is nearly a sob. “You make me feel so good. How do you make me feel so damn good?”  And then he’s mindlessly pleading again.

Aramis' hands are braced on either side of Porthos’ shoulders and Porthos feels surrounded, sheltered. Aramis is around him, inside him. His breath is the only other sound in the room, the smell of the oil on his hands is filling Porthos’ head and everything, everything is Aramis. Every place their bodies are touching is a point of shocking heat on Porthos’ skin and he’s sure that he will die of pleasure before Aramis is all the way in him.

When the slide of Aramis’ cock starts to pull back, Porthos’ voice is a piteous wail. “Aramis!”

Aramis has pulled just far enough out that the flare at the head of his cock is tugging at the rim of Porthos’ hole; the added pressure turns the sound of Porthos’ wail into a choked sob.

Aramis’ voice is quiet and low. “If you only knew how beautiful you sound like this. So beautiful. So perfect.”   Porthos feels kisses peppered over his shoulders and the nape of his neck before Aramis begins to press back in again.

Porthos is reduced to panting and trying to arch his ass up to meet Aramis’ hips, to pull him in. Aramis’ laugh rumbles along Porthos’ back. 

“You beg so well with your body. Can you beg me with your mouth, beautiful man?” 

The words pour out like a floodgate has been opened.

“Please!  Please, god, Aramis. Needed this so long. Waited months and dreamed of it, thought about every detail. More, please. Give me more of your cock.”    

As a reward, Aramis rabbits one quick shallow thrust into him and then asks, “Every detail?  Tell me.” 

“The first time I got my hand around your cock, I knew how many fingers I’d have to use to get myself ready for you. In the shower some mornings, I’d slick my fingers up and give myself just a couple. I wanted so bad to be ready for you but I didn’t go further because - fuck! - I still wanted to be tight for you. Still wanted to feel you for days after you fuck me. I’m going to feel your cock when I’m driving to the office, when I’m in meetings, every second.”

Aramis’ cock jerks further into him and Porthos hears, “Fuck, such a filthy mouth you have.” 

“Some morning you’re going to wake up with your cock in my ass just so I can go to work with some of you still inside me. So all day long I’ll remember how good you are to me, how you fuck me just like I need it.” 

“Shit, Porthos!”  Aramis is helpless to stop the lurching thrust of his hips against Porthos and the slapping noise that fills the room is testament to the fact that he’s as deep as he can get. He stills for a second, just breathing against Porthos’ back and feeling that perfect tightness around the base of his cock. His balls are resting against Porthos’ and their hips are nested together and he’s never felt anything more perfect. 

“Please, Aramis. Please. Now.” 

Now, yes. Porthos spreads his thighs further, wanting to feel Aramis’ hips connect with him on every stroke. Aramis is fucking him now, still slow but so deep and Porthos doesn’t stop talking. 

“Can you see me stretched around you?  Can you see my ass trying to take your cock even further?  I’ve waited so long. I need it. Need your cock fucking me, Aramis, filling me. 

“Your fucking mouth, Porthos.” 

“Next time you’ll just have to let me ride you, so when my mouth gets too filthy you can kiss it quiet. You’ll be able to see it on my face then, how much I need you, how fucking good you feel inside me. You’ll be able to watch me taking every last inch of you right up my hole. Fuck, faster, please!” 

Aramis’ hips are losing rhythm now, no longer a steady stroking in but a helpless fucking as deep as he can go. Porthos moans when Aramis pulls out too quickly but stops when Aramis pulls at his shoulder. 

“Over, on your back.” and then Aramis is covering him again, his oil-slick hand wrapped around both of their cocks and he’s pulling, stroking, fucking his hand down over them. The heat and hardness of Aramis’ cock against his own and the slipping slide of Aramis’ hand is too much. Porthos comes with a shout; his come spattering against his belly and over Aramis’ hand. The look on his face sends Aramis over and he cries out, a startled “Fuck!” and his come mixes with Porthos’ running down his wrist. 

Aramis drops to the bed beside Porthos, his forehead pressed into Porthos’ shoulder. Eventually, their breathing calms from a desperate heaving and Porthos laughs quietly, “My body is jelly right now, every bit of it. I’m not sure what I did to deserve you but remind me to never stop.” 

“You can’t stop being you.”  He bumps his nose against Porthos’ shoulder, kissing the warm skin and smelling the oil his hands worked into it. Aramis trails a finger through the come pooled on Porthos’ belly, “You’re a mess.”

“Well then, stop finger-painting with it and we’ll get a shower.” 

“Can we wash your mouth out with soap while we’re in there? Because your language is filthy, Porthos.”

“You love it.” 

“I do, god help me. But not as much as I love you.”

Porthos cups his hand under Aramis’ chin and tilts his face up to kiss him. It’s a soft kiss, just a testament to Porthos’ happiness. “I love you so much.”

They stay in the shower until the water grows cool and no spot on the other is left unkissed. Both of them put on sleep pants and Aramis pulls off the spare sheet he’d draped over the covers before Porthos got home so they wouldn’t get oil on the covers. When Porthos says, “Clever you, I never noticed,” Aramis laughs. 

“If you’d noticed the sheet, I’d have been doing something terribly wrong.”  When they’re in bed, Porthos pulls Aramis to him, draping himself over and around Aramis and lavishing him with lazy kisses until they are both heavy-lidded and sleep takes them.

 

Porthos wakes in the morning just in time to go get the girls. He watches Aramis sleeping and wonders at how he got so lucky. Both the sheet and Aramis’ sleep pants are riding low and the curve of one hipbone is visible. Porthos wants to kiss it but knows where that will undoubtedly lead. Instead he kisses his fingers and presses them to Aramis’ head, thinking how perfect he looks in Porthos’ bed. In his house. In his life. 

They stop for breakfast on the way home and when they come through the door, Aramis is standing in the kitchen in his sleep pants and a beat up Steelers shirt. He’s made coffee and if Porthos weren’t already in love this would be enough to push him over the edge. 

The rest of the day is a lazy sprawl of books and newspapers, television and homework, cooking and eating. Aramis quizzes Luci on the week’s spelling words while Porthos and Salomé draw and label plant life cycles. When dinner is finished, Aramis starts packing up his laptop. He’s coiling the cord around his hand when Luci says, “You’re not leaving, are you?” 

Aramis jerks his head toward Porthos just as Salomé says “Oh, don’t go!  We like when you’re here. Even with all the kissing.” 

He turns to Porthos, his face confused and unsure. They’ve been trying to maintain a little separation; neither of them wants to rush the girls. Porthos’ expression is one of hopeful expectation as he says; “You’ve got a spare set of clothes in the wash.”

Aramis give an exaggerated sigh of defeat. “It’s a conspiracy of du Vallons!” 

Porthos’ grin stretches from ear to ear and his dimples are enormous. They both know that cooler heads would caution them to take things slower. This is real life, not a fairy tale, and even with the best intentions it could still all go horribly wrong. But here, tonight, what seems sensible is to curl up on the sofa with his boyfriend and read quietly while his daughters get ready for bed. What makes sense is to wish the girls sweet dreams and then take Aramis to bed, to kiss and touch and stroke him until they are each a sweaty exhausted mess and then the fall asleep feeling like the luckiest man alive. So that’s what he does.

 

March is a flurry of activity. There’s a meeting of advisors and consul officials at the embassy and Porthos is doing double duty. The girls have started fencing at the same salle where Aramis trains so they’re often home late. Aramis’ soccer league has started practice again but he still makes time for dinners and weekends whenever he can. 

It should be too much, there should be cracks starting to show, but instead they turn to each other. Aramis takes the girls to fencing, he trains while they train and they all come back to the house together, picking up take-out on the way. Porthos’ double duty makes him unbelievably stressed but rather than closing off he confides in Aramis, resting his head against Aramis’ neck and talking until there’s nothing left to say.

Aramis can’t comprehend all the specific complaints but he understands the theme. He listens without interrupting and then he rubs Porthos’ hands until the tension drains out of them and offers to bring the girls home after school. When Porthos gets home the next Monday, dinner is on the table; it’s a new recipe Aramis has taught the girls. 

“It won’t always be like this, I promise,” Porthos says. 

Aramis strokes his thumbs over Porthos’ eyebrows, kissing first one and then the other. “Everyone gets a turn to be needed, and everyone gets a turn to need. Right now it’s my chance to show you how much I appreciate when you take care of me.” 

Aramis’ soccer practices keep him out in the chilly dark and he falls victim to the cold the school is passing around. Instead of taking the girls for pedicures that weekend (it’s their thing now), he spends most of both days miserable in bed. Luci brings him tea and Salomé makes him soup and Porthos shoves him into a steaming hot shower until he can breathe again.

“I’m sorry I’m useless,” Aramis says between sneezes.

“None of that. Remember, everyone gets a turn.”  His hand is stroking through Aramis’ hair and Aramis grabs it to twine their fingers together.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Don’t sneeze on me.” 

With the conflicting schedules and the sicknesses and the work and school, a new relationship should be falling apart, instead it gets stronger.

 

Aramis’ first soccer game of the season is in early April and Porthos and the girls bring chairs so they can sit by the sidelines and cheer him on. Mémé isn’t sure when to cheer but she’s incredibly enthusiastic. Luci has to be stopped from loudly taking issue with the referee’s calls. Porthos just tries to get past the heart stopping visual of Aramis in shorts, his jersey plastered to his chest with sweat. 

By the end of the game, Aramis is breathless and flushed and his curls are damp with sweat and clinging to his forehead. He is easily the most beautiful man Porthos has ever seen and it is a serious effort to keep his hands to himself. 

They all climb into Porthos’ car for the ride back to the house and Porthos slips his hand off the shifter to cup his palm over Aramis’ knee. “You looked great out there.” 

“It helped having a cheering section. Thank you for coming, all of you.” 

“We wouldn’t have missed it.”  The hairs on Aramis’ leg are crisp under Porthos’ thumb as he rubs it back and forth. He needs to stop touching Aramis now, before he can’t. 

Once they’re back at the house, Aramis heads straight for the shower and the girls commandeer the TV for an afternoon of video games. Porthos is on the bed reading when Aramis comes out of the bathroom. His towel is slung low around his hips and water is dripping off his hair and running down his chest.

Porthos is struck by two thoughts, one right after another. The first is _I get to fuck that whenever I want,_ the second is _He belongs here._  

Aramis must see his glazed expression because he gives a flirty smile and says, "What’s that look for?” 

Before he can second-guess himself, Porthos says, “Stay here.” 

“I am staying here. We’re going to breakfast in the morning and I’m taking the girls to the movies.”

“No. Always. Stay here always.” 

“What?” 

“Live here with me, with the girls. Every part of our lives is better with you in it and I want to wake up next to you every morning.” 

Aramis sits on the bed, his face looks dazed. “Are you sure?”

“Never more. I thought I didn’t need anyone, I even told the girls that. But I didn’t realize I was just waiting for you. Now that I have you I don’t ever want to be without you. Please?”

“Only if Luci and Mémé say it’s okay.”

Porthos takes Aramis’ face in his hands. “You’re perfect.”

They ask the girls over dinner that night. Well… they _try_ to ask the girls over dinner that night.

“Mr. Aramis and I have a question for you. We’re thinking about something and we want to make sure you’re okay-“

“Is Mr. Aramis moving in?”  Luci asks.

Aramis says, “What do you think about that idea?” 

Salomé chews her chicken and thinks for a second. “Can we get a puppy?” 

“You make a lousy extortionist, Mémé,” Porthos says. “This is a discussion, not a negotiation for settlement terms.” 

“If Mr. Aramis comes to live with us, does that mean you love him?”  Luci seems to be taking this more seriously than her sister.

“I do, but there will never be anyone or anything in my life more important than you and your sister.” 

Luci smiles and her glance at Salomé seems to be some kind of sibling check-in because she turns back to Aramis and says, “We would love it if you’d come live with us. You make Papa happy and you make really good bread.” 

Aramis promises to keep doing both of those to the best of his ability. He seems a little overwhelmed so Porthos sends the girls into the kitchen with the dishes and slides his hand over Aramis’. “I love you.” 

“What if I-“

“Then we’ll deal with it. And I’ll still love you.” 

“How am I so lucky?” 

“I ask myself that same question.”

They’re still kissing when the girls come back for the rest of the dishes.

 

And that’s how it goes. Aramis moves in and his things find homes among Porthos’ belongings. The girls put stickers on his guitar case and when Flea comes to town that summer she sees it, laughs, and shows him the stickers they put all over her laptop. 

It's not perfect, nothing ever is. A few of the other parents at the girls' high school graduation frown at Porthos and Aramis holding hands but the disapproval of strangers is forgotten as they're both smothered in hugs when the ceremony is over. 

When Luci turns twenty-one, Aramis takes her to get her first tattoo. She’s a grown adult and she would have gone on her own anyway and he thought she should be there to have someone to hold her hand. It all makes perfect sense but he's banished to the sofa for the weekend anyway. 

Everyone thinks it's a bad idea for Salomé to move in with her college boyfriend, everyone but Salomé. They're right, of course, and that year instead of going skiing over winter break everyone goes to Philadelphia and helps Salomé move out. 

The preparations for Luci's wedding grow tense when she doesn't understand Aramis' reluctance to talk about her plans. He finally tells her he feels guilty because she should be talking to one of her parents about those things. She hugs him fiercely and says, "I _am_ talking to one of my parents."  Porthos and Aramis both walk her down the aisle. 

The only grandparent more adoring than Aramis is Porthos, even when Salomé's oldest son spits up down the back of his favorite shirt. 

With every year, every decade that passes Porthos realizes he could never have dreamed of a life this good or filled with this much love. They argue about little things, but never for long. They kiss often, for as long as they can. He watches his amazing girls grow into spectacular women and he holds Aramis at night and somehow it just… works.

  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> I ripped the school description right out of real life, that's the school my daughter went to through kindergarten. I also ripped off some actual dialogue choices from her. It's a good way to make her be useful while she's still learning how to help out around the house without leaving a bigger mess than when she started.
> 
> That nail polish color exists. It's made by ButterLondon who have the best polish names EVER.


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